Such is Life

I am sitting in Mom’s hospital room waiting for her final discharge. She is propped up in bed, sleeping with her head resting on my shoulder and what hair the chemotherapy has left mists over the crown of her head. Like a desperate poker player who has bet everything on a final losing hand, the old woman had gone all in and has lost.

One early morning last January her pivotal moment happened. She choked on her morning’s oatmeal. She grabbed her cell phone, collapsed onto the living room floor and dialed 911. She then struggled over to the front door and unlocked it. She didn’t want her door broken in by the emergency responders. I built that door and she coveted it.

When the paramedics and police arrived a slapstick pandemonium broke out bordering on grab-ass. From her vantage point on the floor, she saw huge black feet scramble after four little white dogs, whose weight is measured more accurately in ounces than pounds. The dogs yapped, bolted and darted with Murray City’s Finest in hot pursuit, all within a small radius of her.

After Mom was delivered to the hospital, the emergency room doctor, a tall slender man, with knowledge and compassion written on his face, studied her x-rays. It was obvious to even the most uneducated eye that a large malignant tumor was rampaging in her neck. The cells of her thyroid had gone insane, developing into a boiling mob that brutalized her thyroid and vocal cords, and then spread their madness to her lungs and eventually her liver. The madness will take her life.

I have shifted positions and have helped her to sit on the edge of the bed. She wants to go for a walk, to enjoy the wondrous kinesis of motion, but her energy has evaporated. Her head tilts to the right and she settles her cheek into the palm of my hand. Her right cheek folds over the edge of my hand like a dollop of warm velvety mashed potatoes. Her left cheek hangs and there is a hint of a tear dropping from her left eye. The old woman is aware.

I look down and read her hospital tag: birth date 10/02/1929. I take a mental journey and see a stampede of kids bursting out of a small, rural school house while their teacher tries to corral them by hurling threats and consequences. A pilot has barnstormed Mayfield, her home town, landing his craft in the farm fields just beyond the school. It is the first time any of the kids have seen an airplane up close and my mother is filled with amazement as her legs churn towards this marvel of modern science; she is not to be denied. She is maybe 10-12 years old, it’s around 1939 and the world is reeling from Germany and Japan’s shock troops. Unbeknownst to her, my dad, her future husband, ten years her senior, is spending his evenings strutting down Main Street, decked out in a zoot suit, a classy doll on his arm, spoiling for a brawl with anyone who gives him the hard eye.

I am back from the past and have checked Mom out of the hospital. Two young men have loaded the old woman into a medical transport van on a stretcher. We are bound for my home where she will spend her last moments. I climb in and am sitting in a jump seat along side her. I take her hand, the van accelerates and the hospital runs away from us. We gain the freeway and time and distance melt together. I am desperate to smash a window, reach out and claw onto anything that will slow this goddamn careening van and the hands of time. The oxygen bottles in the van clink and chatter, indifferent to the occupants, adding to the bump and hum of the freeway traffic. I want to tell them to shut-the-fuck-up.

I ask Mom to tell me about Jimmy, her favorite horse. In a shallow voice that sounds like sandpaper on metal she replies, “Jimmy was my favorite. He was big… and dark… a Morgan… a cutting horse. I liked to ride him bareback with a bridle. You had to be careful.” I stepped back into the past. I saw a girl well mounted on a big dark gelding. He was running hard, with the bit set between his teeth. The girl’s dark hair flew and waved like wheat in a summer breeze. The sounds of rushing air and horse were loud in her ears. She moved in rhythm with the horse as they raced through the pasture. The horse stretched his neck, threw his hooves and surged forward, while the girl leaned and rolled in syncopation, drinking in the excitement of the moment. They were electric.

The van jumps, the oxygen bottles clang a protest and I fast forward to a black and white photograph of her sitting on our living room couch, reading a story to my brother and me. My dad must have captured the moment. She is young, in her twenties, and radiant; hair done up in a soft swirl and wearing a summer cotton dress. My brother and I are young shavers, wearing pajamas, sporting crew cuts and boiling over with enthusiasm. I don’t remember the story but she instilled in us the wonder of reading. Oh the mental travels I have taken since then. I owe her one.

The van has stopped in my driveway. The young men tenderly unload the stretcher carrying Mom and slam the van’s rear doors. The oxygen bottles clang a parting shot, getting in the last word – those obnoxious sons of bitches. They carry her into my living room and place her in an awaiting hospital bed. This is where she wanted to rest; her final rest, looking out at Twin Peaks and Thunder Mountain.

A day or two has passed. I am sitting next to Mom, in front of a window that looks out onto the Wasatch Front. It has been storming for the most part, but today dawns brilliantly through the window. In a soft rasp she asks, “How are your tomatoes doing?” I answer, “Fine. All this rain has really helped.” She liked to raise heirloom tomatoes, Brandywine to be exact. She enjoyed their rich red meat and especially the acid when it prickled her tongue. About other tomatoes she said, “Those shittin’ bastards have ruined them!” Who those “shittin’ bastards” are I am not quite sure. It must be the guys who came up with a less acidy, quicker fruiting plant. Indeed, they are “shittin’ bastards” for taking some of the zing out of life.

For a couple of moments I see her tending a three foot high plant, tying the heavy fruit laden branches up to the cage that surrounds the plant. She has amended the soil to the point you can dive your fingers in, fully extended and explore the soft loam. Her hands smell of tomato vine and she is proud to share. As a friend of mine put it about her tomatoes “You take a bite and the goddamn juice runs down your arms!” The old woman knew how to capture the wealth of summer.

The hands of my wife’s antique Regulator should have spun around six times, but now its pendulum has been stopped to silence the hourly bong; my mother does not need the noise and I am grateful not to mark time. It is late in the afternoon. I am standing on my deck leaning on the railing, looking out at the garden and the mountains. The sky is heavy; it’s going to storm. There are too many people milling around her and the pressure has driven me out of the room. My brother and his wife are here, as well as all his kids and their kids. It seems that the old woman’s passing has become a spectacle and it offends me. Only a couple of grandkids took an interest in her. Why would the others come and bring their kids to view her passing? I suppose it’s a Mormon thing or maybe it gives a sense of closure or both. Regardless, I have become her protector and I don’t like it, but I have to choke it down nonetheless.

Mom has lapsed into a coma, her eyes half open. The raging mob within her has overwhelmed her; the old woman is shutting down. I want to tell her to go find Rebel, her favorite black Labrador who died a number of years earlier, but the words suffocate in my throat. I hope she will hold his big block head in her lap, stroke his soft ears and feel the chill of his wet nose on her cheek. Maybe a late summer breeze will carry them into my garden, Rebel at heel, the old woman stopping to sample a tomato, both enjoying the sparkle of summer.

I walk back into the room, sit on the couch by her bedside and take her hand. I think about a strange fanciful light pattern that danced on the ceiling yesterday morning. It consisted of several ellipses that jumped and cavorted around with each other. I stared, enjoying the exquisite whimsy. Where it came from only Chicken Man knows for sure. Maybe it was the morning’s sunlight refracting through the rain water, which pooled and glistened like quicksilver, on the glass table top that stood on the deck. Regardless, it was the sum of the parts that made it so delicately fanciful. And so it was with my mother. She was five foot nothing, beautiful, even at age 79; read J.D. Salinger and Parade; watched Meet the Press and Dancing with the Stars; volunteered for the Red Cross and often clawed back gifts; loved jazz, dogs and gardening and hated religious conservatism; fiercely independent but relished being asked over for dinner; secretive, but could not keep a secret; she could radiate one moment and glower the next; had no close friends but garnered respect and affection from others; taught the school of tough love, yet mourned when my brother and I moved out of her house; could set your hair on fire with her ill timed comments, but burst with pride over your accomplishments. This was my mother. As I watched a thought occurred and I ducked my chin. The old woman, like the light, will soon disappear. And so she did.

I am sitting outside on the deck with the family members who adored Mom, warts and all. The old woman has left the house; an undertaker and his assistant have taken her away. Both men are well into their fifties and have the studied posture and expression that allows them to do their job efficiently and respectfully. They loaded her into a nondescript van and drove off. I stood on the porch watching them go. Then in a panic, I bolted to the end of the driveway, frantic for one more glimpse, but the van had already crested the hill and disappeared. I felt gut shot.

We have poured a glass of rye for all and sip from cut crystal drink glasses. We are standing a drink for the old woman. The burn of the whiskey complements the caress of the cool storm struck air. Thunderstorms have been swirling around the Salt Lake valley for the past two weeks and this evening is no exception. A storm rolls in from the south, black, swollen, and spoiling for a fight. It brawls with Corner Canyon, then Bell Canyon and heads our way. On arrival, it throws a long flash of lightning that splits the sky and follows it up with a booming crack of thunder that shakes our deck. The thunder boomer has announced its presence with authority. Tom, my nephew, glibly comments, “Grammie has already pissed someone off.” The remark is perfectly timed. It felt good to laugh. Such is life.